


Patchwork Homes

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, First Time Bottoming, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gob, Charon, and Nova have worked out a quiet domestic routine for the three of them-- but sometimes Charon and Gob need a little time to themselves to try something new.</p>
<p>(Note: Poly triad, but smut focus is on Gob/Charon. References to past threesomes and Gob/Nova smut.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patchwork Homes

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful ialpiriel and placentalmammal for beta'ing this. :)

Gob clinks the last glass in place and steps back. Surveys the bar with a contented sigh, smiling as he watches Charon put the stools away and Nova sweep.

Nova grins, sets her broom aside and steps close. Pulls him in, smooth and practiced. Whiff of faded rose scent and Old World glamor dabbed at her wrists, her ears, still lingering after the long day. Pulses warm and embraces him in powdery sweetness. Her bare feet whisper over the worn boards, Gob’s boots stumbling in clumsy echo. She leads, tugs them into Charon’s orbit as the tall ghoul stacks the last stool on the bar with a wooden scrape. Opens her arms with a stiletto smile and passes Gob to Charon. Kisses Gob behind the ear and fishes in his pocket for a lighter, cupping his thigh on the way out. Ignores his half-hearted protest as she steps back and lights a cigarette. Eyes sparkling with benevolent mischief as Charon takes over without batting an eye.

Charon dances with less flourish than Nova, but a precision that makes it easy for Gob to fall in sync. Their boots scuff the floor, GNR drifting sweet and dusty as Gob leans in. Breathes the grit and gunmetal off Charon’s skin.

The song closes, and Charon finishes with a dip. One hand splayed over Gob’s back, faint tension through his frame as he lifts Gob back to standing. Showmanship, a terse nod at Nova’s lazy round of applause.

Some sort of wordless exchange in the flick of her eyelids and the dip of Charon’s chin-- and Gob supposes, sometimes, that he ought to be offended at being exchanged without his own direct contribution. Hard to muster indignation though. He’s a lucky man, having them both.

“You boys have fun. Don’t keep it down on _my_ account,” she says. Smiles, reaches out and straightens the line of Gob’s shirt. Runs her fingers down the buttons, sets them even and slips her thumb through the gaps, one by one. As if she doesn’t know it’s coming off anyway.

Gob flushes, a blotchy redness that passes for blushing, heat prickling up his neck and cheeks.

Charon snorts. Might be a laugh from someone less emotionally constipated.

They stamp upstairs, Nova’s laugh chasing them as she returns to sweeping. The stairs creak-- less than Charon’s bones, some days. A familiar sound, a comfort that wraps the heart like the walls that make a home.

Gob lets Charon lead, as always. Some habits time can’t erase. Some contracts were made to be broken.

Charon leads them to Gob’s room. ‘Gob’s’ room but equally likely to be shared with Charon or Nova, depending on the night. (Or both, and those are some _good_ nights, Nova kissing his neck and laughing into his skin, Charon between his legs and sucking his cock.) Gob’s bed is the biggest of the three, though Gob feels like he’s drowning in its space if left alone. Too much emptiness for one man.

Charon shuts the door with a click, pats Gob’s shoulder and pushes him to the bed. Gob’s knees buckle, ass hitting the mattress as Charon straddles his hips. Springs squeak, off-key harmony as Charon presses chapped lips below what’s left of Gob’s ear and begins undressing him. Friction-warmth of cloth on skin, tattered fingertips sliding over Gob’s buttons, a chalky kiss as Gob shrugs out of his shirt. Charon scrapes his palm across Gob’s chest as Gob returns the favor, unbuckling Charon’s rows of belts and dropping them to the floor with an unmusical thunk.

They’re both pictures, all right-- torn on every edge, desiccated flesh and too-hard skin, peeling epidermis. Charon’s more arresting, at least. Jigsaw cut of old scars and stitches pieced together, Braille writ on the page of the body. Gob nuzzles Charon’s shoulders, tongue probing a puckered keloid crescent. No idea what gave that, since Charon doesn’t tell and Gob doesn’t ask. Figures that Charon will share when he wants to. If he wants to. But it’s texture, keloid slick after the leather-kissed skin. Leaves Gob wine-mouthed, tannins on his tongue. Makes Charon groan low. Rumbles through him, through Gob.

Boots now-- an impatient twitch of Charon’s wrist as he slides off Gob’s lap. Tugs the offending footwear free. Socks, then trousers. Gob helps, bucks his hips and lifts as he shimmies his boxers down.

Charon stands just out of reach, unlaces and kicks his boots off. Pants off, already half-hard and returning to Gob’s lap with a grunt. All their skin in contact, a rough friction of limbs and edges. Gob’s cock rubs against Charon’s ass, a frustration of warmth before Charon growls and cups Gob’s face.

Gob wets his lips, opens his mouth for permission and blessing. Charon bends down, what’s left of his nose brushing Gob’s cheek. Breath harsh with vinegar, the kind of salt-hunger that cracks lips and stabs the throat, but doesn’t make his kiss any less welcome. Gob rests his hands on Charon’s waist, runs his thumb down to the divot of the hip. Slow, gentle. No need to rush, not when Charon sets the pace.

“Want to be on top,” Charon murmurs into the side of Gob’s cheek.

Gob nods, shifts his grip. Fingers at the cleft of Charon’s buttocks.

“No. On top and in you,” Charon clarifies.

Gob pulls back, reads the tension in Charon’s shoulders. Rare for Charon to say what he wants-- usually easier to say what he _doesn’t_ want, portion his words with meticulous precision. Gob thumbs at a lank tuft of red hair, brushes ragged nails down Charon’s scalp. Heavy gaze presses him to the bed, with Charon’s thighs clamped around his waist as Charon folds himself in, all wiry muscle and gawky elbows. Wraps his arms around Gob’s shoulders.

Gob’s done this before, too-- Nova’s fingers, Nova’s toys, laughter and giggles and messy with lube. Not with Charon, but it’s an easy first to add to their slow-knit intimacy, another in this shared life they’re making.

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds good to me,” Gob says. “Just want a pillow under me.” Picks his heels up to the edge of the bed and pushes, thighs into Charon’s back and spilling them backwards. All limbs and angles, Charon’s forearm beside Gob’s head and the mattress dipping to wedge Gob against him as Charon tugs a pillow down. Another slow kiss, Gob flicking his tongue down the tendon of Charon’s neck. Gob laps into him, picks up that forever-taste of rainwater and road-dust wound thick in Charon’s blood. Doesn’t matter the days, months, years spanning out between them and strung up in birthdays and Friday night card games, Charon always carries some measure of wandering in his core. Indelible ink stamped in his soul. Some fear that maybe this patchwork home is only temporary, that he’ll be tracking boot-leather across the wastes soon enough.

Gob can’t quiet those restless fears with words, so he cups himself to Charon’s body. Invitation through action. Charon slides his ass down, pillow wedged under Gob. Straddles lower on Gob’s thighs so their dicks brush. Wraps one of his long-fingered hands around both their cocks, rhythm more teasing than anything as Gob sighs. Gob grips the blanket, elbow jutting skyward as he gasps, “Would feel better with lube,” and Charon nods. Not even a break in the stroke as he grabs the jar from the nightstand, passes it to Gob’s free hand.

Gob holds tight on the base as Charon unscrews the lid. Charon takes a generous dip of the slippery contents, smears it over his palm and drops the lid. Gob nudges the jar aside and scoots, shoulders digging into the blankets as he wriggles up the bed, spreads his knees and lets Charon sit in the cradle of his legs.

Charon wraps his hand around Gob’s cock, strokes up. Down. Slippery and skin-warm now, makes Gob squirm and gasp as Charon slips a finger down his thigh. Ticklish-smooth after the dry rub of skin, though Charon pauses over Gob’s ass. Old gears clicking behind those worn eyes.

Gob swallows, licks his lips. Uses his free hand to grip behind his knee, pulls back. Smiles, a stretch that aches his cheeks. “Come on,” he coaxes.

Charon nods and presses his finger to Gob’s entrance. Pressure without pushing, slips forward as Gob relaxes. Slow and steady, finger sliding past the inner ring and curling, tiny bit of presence as Charon continues stroking Gob’s cock. Steady grip and practiced rhythm-- squeezes a little firmer on the upstroke, milky gaze level with Gob’s. And oh, and oh it feels good, feels better as Gob relaxes but Charon waits until Gob nods before sliding the second finger in. Slow, slow-- even as Charon picks up speed with his hand, kisses Gob’s knee and Gob hisses past his teeth. Bucking onto Charon’s hand now, an incoherent whine before Charon gives a rustling ghost-laugh. Barely more than a whisper of breath before Charon takes another dip of lube, slicks his cock good and wet.

Gob chuckles, gravel-coarse and whiskey-harsh. Pulls back on his knees, rolls back. All lifted and exposed with the pillow propping his hips. “I’m all yours.”

Charon snorts, rolls his eyes.

Laughing, Gob amends, “All yours when Nova doesn’t call dibs.”

Mollified, Charon slides himself to Gob’s entrance. Little resistance, a slow stretch as Gob accommodates. Achingly slow, and Gob releases his knees to grip Charon’s shoulders, nails digging crescents into flesh. Wraps his calves around Charon, heels drumming his lower back as Gob urges him in. Little too fast now, impatient-- throbbing, an edge of pain that soothes away with Charon’s dry kisses. His mouth traces a line of comfort down Gob’s cheek, Gob’s jaw. Lip-blunted teeth soft over Gob’s throat as Gob groans.

Suspended in this moment, like glittering reflections in the amber bottles downstairs. With Charon’s body over his, hips flush with his ass and twined around one another. Breath rattling his lungs, press of skin and it’s not too much, no, but it’s not just right yet--

Charon kisses the edge of his mouth, pulls back. Gob sighs, squeezes his knees. Pushes. Little back and forth, reading the tension in Charon’s thighs, the tremble of his shoulders as Charon rocks forward. Heels on Charon’s back and Gob’s hand tight on Charon’s shoulder, the other bumping down in the gap of space between them. Nice as it feels to grind his dick against Charon’s belly, it’s nicer when Gob grips himself, slides his hand in that out-of-sync rhythm with Charon’s slow ebb. It’s like dancing, really, some strange and carnal pattern that finally clicks as Gob eases into it, Charon thrusting harder and Gob gripping white-knuckled into the meat of Charon’s shoulder.

Tamps himself into Charon’s arm, blunts his cries into the soft press of flesh and doesn’t even realize it until Charon grunts, “Make noise.” Flicker of hesitancy, breath crackling between them, smoke-heavy like old newspapers burst into flame. “Please. For me.”

The request thrums sweetly electric through him, though pulling his mouth from Charon’s like pulling magnets, tugging against something that’s as natural as the syncopated rhythm of their hearts. Tingles the back of his teeth, full-throated keening that almost, not quite, drowns the slap of skin and harder, harder, bed-creak and jangled springs and louder, louder than the radio-drift and Charon’s losing himself too, all the careful-metered control melting soft and vulnerable, jaw slack and eyes closed and Gob could lose himself forever there, could hold this moment up precious and lit and… and…

Charon shudders, comes. Warm and sticky, shoulders trembling and hips loose, tumbled forward and chest slumped. Dangling himself on his forearms, small blessing in his effort not to crush Gob beneath him.

Gob’s still stroking, still close to coming but not there. So Charon pulls out with a wordless grunt and slings himself to the side, knee tucked over Gob’s and filling the gaps between them with breath and dry grit, the iron-tang and copper-edged pieces of him like gun-parts clicking into place. Puts his hand over Gob’s, takes over with stroking. Thumb resting on the head, out of place with the stroke of his palm, and that off-beat rhythm’s what finally spills Gob over the edge, makes him sputter and come and twitch.

Charon grins, smug and lazy as a tomcat. A tatter-eared brute, veteran of the wastes, but not above coming in for a scrap of kindness and the odd dish of milk.

And when Gob says as much, Charon laughs. Snorts, all dry and dusty like old leather, but even that sound’s music.

“You read too much,” Charon says. Affection tucked between his back teeth like a sweet he’s saving for later. Swirls his finger over Gob’s belly, scoops a dab of semen.

Gob giggles-- and some faint and distant part of him is indignant at the very description, too young and girlish for a ghoul of his age and general maturity, but he knows it’s true so why fight it?-- and says, “You’re not denying it.” Belly sticky, thighs sticky, can’t be bothered to wipe it away.

Charon rolls his eyes, licking Gob’s come from his hand. Tucks himself under the covers and lifts the blankets, leaving a gap for Gob to slide himself into. Charon takes all the pillows but extends his arm, and that’s just as good, maybe better, for Gob’s head. Gob nestles up snug into Charon’s armpit, ear wedged against the laddered notches of his ribs and fingers sprawled across the planes of Charon’s belly, the dips of old scars and the gentle swell of breath.

Next morning, Nova sidles into the kitchen with her hair effortlessly mussed, a style that looks like she just rolled out of bed but Gob knows full well takes her fifteen minutes teasing in front of a mirror to achieve.

“When I said you didn’t have to keep it down, _hoo_. Took me at my word. Heard you all while I was sweeping, even over the radio,” she chuckles, buffing her nails against her vest and eyes too-bright for that honeyed innocence dripping over every syllable. “So, gimme details?”

Gob shakes his head, pushes the sizzling bacon around the pan. Not enough food in his belly to fortify him for Nova’s interrogation.

But Charon looks up from his half-peeled potato, mouth open and eyes lit with unholy delight.

Gob waggles the spatula at Charon, hand on his hip and mouthing, “ _No.”_

Nova cackles.


End file.
